


Honour Amongst Thieves

by gremlinteeth



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: (phase three only mentioned in memories), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Devil's Tramping Ground, F/M, Kleptomania, Phase Four (Gorillaz), Phase Three (Gorillaz), Road Trips, Sexual Coercion, Spirit House, Unrequited Love, will probably update these as I go in case I forgot something
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-05-25 07:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14972321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gremlinteeth/pseuds/gremlinteeth
Summary: "So, a girl treated you like a genuine human being and you went and decided you were in love with her? God that's pathetic.""Believe me, love, if the decision were up to me I would never have met the damn bird in the first place."----------It's 2014, six long years since the events on Plastic Beach, and yet Murdoc Niccals can't get over a girl.Fresh out of EMI's prison below Abbey Road and tasked with creating the next Gorillaz masterpiece album, the bass-player is quick to skip town on his recently reunited bandmates and head as far from home as a one-way ticket to the United States can get him.His theory is simple: if you drink enough, fuck enough, and forget enough, you can't possibly have any time left to miss people that most definitely are not missing you.  A hellish toothache was never a part of the plan, and neither was getting his last bottle of expensive scotch stolen by a moody receptionist, yet when it comes to the subsequent road trip to steal back his soul from Satan it's these two unfortunate events that lead him to meet the exact delinquent he needs to help him.________~ AfterThe Trapeze Swinger~





	1. The Bull's Eye Bar and Bistro, 3pm on a Bloody Tuesday and Not a Bird in Sight

There had been a girl.

His mouth tastes bitter as he lets himself think of her, just for a moment. A memory: she's sitting across from him, face lit up as she laughs in surprise at a joke he's making. Her teeth are blunt from the stressful grinding she does in her sleep; he wants to tell her about the racket it makes as she dreams but he doesn't want her knowing he's noticed.

He spits on the pub floor, downing the rest of his whisky before motioning wordlessly for another. It slides across to him and he pours it down his throat, rinse and repeat, wait for the warmth of it to reach him but it doesn't come, it's never coming and he laughs at the emptiness of it all.

It feels lonely, cold all the way up through the very centre of him as he sits slumped, tracing his finger through the condensation on his glass. This was new too, the gift she'd left behind for him the second he'd lost sight of her; a person-shaped void that echoes with her absence.

The green-skinned man casts around the room with blurring vision, squinting through the gloom to try and pick out a woman worthy of filling that empty silhouette for the night. Everything is a violent haze, amber liquid melting into the golden light of the afternoon sun until the room seems to have become syrup and Murdoc isn't quite sure if he could stand up from his stool if he tried.

The one thing he is sure of though, is that there's not a single bird in the bar.

_Bloody useless._

His jaw is throbbing as he taps his nails against the veneered surface of the bench-top, blinking heavily as he waits for the sun to set across Detroit and sink the city into the smoky black of nighttime; waits for the ache in the back of his mouth to subside. If he sits long enough, sobriety will come to claim him, sighing as it pulls him upright and out of the warm fog of his drunken daze. He knows it'll come sooner or later, knows he has to face up to the facts and forgo self pity, and yet the glass in his hand whispers otherwise; it sings him a hymn as it's contents slide warm down his throat.

The clock on the wall above the bar ticks over to 3:15pm.

The nerve inside his molar turns molten with necrosis.

Murdoc Niccals motions for another drink.


	2. 4.1

My shirt was untucked and I was still fixing the buttons into something that resembled a uniform line when the taxi pulled up, the man behind the wheel fixing me with a foxy grin as he pointed to the exorbitant fare displayed cheerfully bright on the dashboard meter. I gave him a withering look, digging around in my wallet for the correct change as I stalled having to open the car door and face the day of sober torture waiting beyond.

_$36.25 for the twenty minutes between that jumped-up college wanker's house_ _and Midtown?_ **_With_ ** _a free peep-show thrown in when I realised my pants were on inside-out?_ **_Criminal._ **

"Thank you, ma'am," the cab-driver wheezed when I finally handed over the fistful of crumpled notes and coins, still moronically grinning as he winked at me with one crow-footed eye and added, "You take care now."

"Cheers mate," I said flatly, my voice an unimpressed monotone I hoped would deflate his mood yet only seemed to amuse the man further.

"I love the way you oess-sees speak, it's so funny," He chuckled as I violently pushed the door open, his nasally Michigan accent grating against what little remained of my patience.

_It's_ **_Aussies_ ** _, you backwater swine._

"The feeling is not mutual."

I stepped out onto the pavement, avoiding eye-contact with the people angrily waiting to be let into the locked clinic as I turned and slammed the door as hard as I could. The driver laughed uproariously behind the wheel as he pulled out and sped away, clearly relishing in his apt contribution to the world of American customer service which I was now about to resign myself to for the next eight hours.

Straightening my blazer and pretending it didn't have a red wine stain darkening the rumpled scarlet material, it occurred to me that I was blatantly wearing the same outfit to work as I had yesterday. I wasn't particularly sure I cared yet. Even so, I tried not to look like I'd slept the night passed out on the sofa of a friend-of-a-friend-of-my-dorm-roommate's by schooling my expression into one of guilt-free nonchalance before I turned around to face my employer, their impatient patient, and Tamara, the one fellow employee who was sharing my shift.   
                      With one look at my face the girl stopped grimacing, giving me a pitying smile before motioning to the already bustling cafe next door. I nodded gratefully, watching her disappear inside whilst I made my way reluctantly over to the locked shopfront with the single set of company keys jingling in my hands.

_Things like this wouldn't happen if the stingy management would cut a new set of keys._

I paused for a moment, tasting the thought for truth before revising it sheepishly.

**_Correction:_ ** _things like this wouldn't happen if_ **_I_ ** _hadn't been the one who was entrusted with them._

No one had asked me, but if they had I would have told them the exact truth of the matter: I, the long-suffering Oliver Kirk of Blacktown, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia,  _hated_  customer service. Invented by sadists and perpetuated by consumer pigs, it was the act of pandering to the irrational wants of the eternally disgruntled and never once getting the courtesy of a simple "thank you" in return. I could have been the perfect employee and the ungrateful fuckers still wouldn't have been satisfied.

I mean, I was  _late_ , not committing an atrocity against the American people.

The phone rang insistently for a fifth time from within the dental reception as I finally managed to unlock the glass front door, holding it open for the bitter old cow that had apparently been waiting all fucking night for me to arrive if one was judging by the disdainful frown twisting her sagging features. She limped past me at a snail's pace, her cane clacking on the concrete steps loud enough for each collision of wood and stone to feel like a nail of pain being hammered into my tender skull.

I somehow resisted the urge to kick the legs out from under her as I stood wincing beneath the dark lenses of my sunglasses.

Behind the old hag, Doctor Brody stood tall and smug on the sidewalk, the golden monogram of his initials glinting in the morning sun from the side of the leather briefcase he held loosely in his capable hands. The shame of his widow's peak had been carefully disguised with a sweep of golden curls, broad American chin looking sturdy enough to be used as a throne. Both these small facts were enough to make my stomach twist with nausea as I caught his eye mistakenly, quickly diverting my line of sight directly behind him to the shimmering cherry red car that was proudly parked in front of the clinic; Dr Brody's 1971 Ford Falcon XY GT, shining after a recent wax and polish. I tried not to openly salivate as I gave the old model an envious once-over.

_Hate the cunt, love his car._

Following my gaze, the flashy dentist smiled charmingly at me as he swept up the steps towards the open door, purring under his breath to me as he passed by.

"Next time you're late Miss Kirk, I really am going to have to ask you to stay back for another after-work meeting."

My pulse ticked in my temple as I clenched my jaw, nodding wordlessly despite the fact that the mere idea of being trapped in his office with him again made me want to vomit last night's bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon onto the doormat.   
                        The sound of the phone ringing was already giving me a stress-headache, and I hadn't even entered the building yet. My arm was beginning to ache from holding the heavy door open as Tamara reappeared from the coffeeshop next door, holding out one of two takeaway cups even as she fixed me with a vicious scowl.

"If I don't get paid for the twenty-three minutes you just made me wait outside with that sleaze-ball, you owe me coffee for the next two weeks," She hissed, dark brows furrowing as she looked me square in the face, before grinning mischievously and adding in a whisper, "In other news, I think Mrs Johnstone is going to sue you for making her stand on her arthritic knees for so long."

I laughed, daring to glance towards the grumpy old woman in question as she sunk creakily into one of the waiting room chairs. A regular patient of Dr Brody, she was wearing her best pantsuit and smelt overwhelmingly of the dry and flowery perfume all elderly ladies seem drawn to as their scent of choice. It hung cloyingly in the air around us as I gratefully accepted the coffee cup from Tamara and stepped into the austere building.

"Mrs J can go fuck herself," I murmured in response, the two of us pausing at the reception desk before parting ways for the morning shift.

Tamara sniggered, "I think she'd rather have Dr Brody do that."

Wrinkling my nose at the thought, I made a noise of disgust before waving the still-giggling girl away as I took my place behind the large copper-coloured desk. The phone had rung-out, and I sighed in relief at the calm silence it left behind. Booting up the computer, I reluctantly removed my sunnies and watched the display on the handset beside me click over to a count of six voice messages that I was meant to deal with.

_Fuck that._

Spamming the "delete" button, I erased them from the message bank and leant back in my wheeled desk chair, balancing on only two of the wheels whilst the front ones lifted into the air. It was going to be an easy day I had decided; the blindingly painful, hangover-induced migraine digging through my skull depended on it.

"Aren't you going to ask for my health fund card?" Mrs Johnstone called from her seat on the other side of the room, tapping her walking stick on the floor as if it would help in grabbing my attention.

"Sure thing Mrs J," I drawled, moulding my face into a sweet smile as I continued, "Did you bring your health fund card here with you today?"

"Of course I did -"

"- Then would you be so kind as to bring it over to the counter so I can swipe it through the system?" I interrupted, holding on to the edge of the desk for balance as I teetered on my wheelie chair.

_The Fallen-From-Grace Anti-Hero Oliver Kirk: 1_   
_Baby Boomers And The American Populace In General: 0._

The telephone rang abrasively loud into the silence that had followed my request, and without taking my eyes off the crotchety geriatric patient I picked up the corded receiver and slammed it back down again into the cradle without so much as lifting it to my ear. The old woman frowned reproachfully at me from across the room.

"I'd rather not stand until it's time to go into the surgery room, seeing as my arthritis is flaring up," Mrs Johnstone finally replied, leaning forward with an accusatory look as she added, "I had to stand for twenty minutes out there you know."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, the chair slamming back down onto the carpeted floor as I stood up from my comfy position behind the desk.

"Tragic."

My hatred of customer service was in actuality almost entirely due to the particular nuisance who sat smugly reeking of powdery roses in the plush pleather armchair, beady eyes glittering with malice as I made my way sullenly over to her. Holding out her Health Fund card between two perfectly manicured nails, her wrinkled lips spread into a sickeningly self-satisfied smile as I took the proffered plastic. At the sight of her mouth up close, it took everything in my power not to visibly shudder.  
                       Having been Doctor Brody's dental assistant up until three weeks ago, I knew only too well what those thin, saggy lips hid behind them; periodontitis so severe her teeth wobbled in the meagre flesh of her swollen gums, silver amalgam fillings blackened with age and cracked porcelain dentures that held the entire mess in place. The old woman's vanity had her in and out of our dental clinic constantly, replacing the silver with white, bleaching out the stains, and yet nothing could be done to reverse what years of poor dental hygiene had done to her jaw.

_I hope today is the day all those broken teeth fall straight out of your skull._

Turning on my heel, I stalked back to the reception desk with the card bending in the tightness of my fist as I tried not to think about the exact series of events three weeks prior that Mrs Johnstone was directly responsible for. A gag reflex, a suction tube, my own terrible temper and an extracted incisor tooth; they all formed a string of bad luck that had led to my demotion. The headache last night's high had left me with flared behind my eyes at the effort to push the thoughts from my mind, painful enough to leave them stinging before I angrily blinked the sensation away.

The phone rang again, and this time I picked it up with a wince as I held it to my ear with one hunched shoulder, hands busy swiping Mrs Johnstone's Health Fund card and checking her into the online booking system.

"Good morning, you've reached  _Brody & Benson Dental Services_," I mumbled into the reciever, watching as Tamara came out from the hallway dressed in the navy dental scrubs I by rights should have been wearing, the honey-skinned girl shooting me a cheeky smile before she singsonged Mrs Johnstone's name to call her in to the surgery room.

"Well,  _thanks_  for  _finally_  picking up the bleeding phone, sweetheart."

The heavily accented voice grated through the speaker in a nasal rasp, every syllable dripping sarcasm whilst I watched through narrowed eyes as the old cow moved sprightly from her seat, fixing her over-dyed auburn hair in anticipation of seeing Dr Brody.

_So much for having fuckin' arthritic knees you delusional bitch._

"I'm very sorry about the wait, it's been a very busy morning," I lied smoothly to the British arsehole on the phone, bringing up the daybook on the monitor and making a log of the time Mrs Johnstone was checked in for her appointment, "How can I help you?"

" _You_  can't help me;  _you_  are employed for a service an answering machine performs better at," The man snapped irritably from the handset speaker, and I felt my forehead pull into a stormy scowl of shocked offence as he continued, "What I need is a  _dentist_ , so give me the next appointment you have and then get on with your miserrrrable day.

_It's a knockout! Coloniser-Prick On The Telephone: 1_   
_The Fallen-From-Grace Anti-Hero Oliver Kirk: -1_

Glaring at the daybook, I scrolled down the list of empty time-slots that extended from the end of Mrs Johnstone's appointment to well after our twelve o' clock lunch break. There were so many appointments available that the rude caller was pretty much spoiled for choice, yet I didn't see what good it would do letting him know that.

"I'm afraid we're booked out."

There was a resounding silence from the other end of the call, and I felt myself grin wide as I imagined the pommy fucker trying to swallow the information that he couldn't get what he wanted. The thought even helped lessen my hangover ever so slightly, as if the self-destructive chugging of cheap wine could be reversed through acts of revenge.

After a prolonged pause I heard him sigh, and then he spoke again, his voice a tired rasp of someone completely resigned.

"Look love, I've got a tooth at the back of my mouth giving me more grief than an ex-lover with the clap," He informed me in a matter-of-fact drawl, before adding just a tad more ruefully, "So forgive me if I am a little... blunt, heghgheh."

He laughed wheezily at himself, and I felt my vindictive pleasure dissolve into guilt. Rubbing my temples, I closed my eyes against the blinding fluorescents and bit back my pride.

"Maybe I can squeeze you in..." I began, trailing off as I created a new booking with a few clicks of the computer mouse.

The man sniggered.

"Wellll, I usually take most girls out to dinner first, but sure love, you can give it your best go."

My scowl returned, and I snapped into the receiver, "Oh look, we're all booked out again."

"Hey now, none of that," He protested, still laughing a little before clearing his throat and adding, "Don't make me beg, love, it's not attractive."

I rolled my eyes, gritting my teeth as I set the appointment to 9:30am and locked it in. The form for patient details appeared, and I typed in the mobile number from the handset display in front of me.

"Fine, we'll see you in half an hour then, if you can survive that long with your toothache?" I muttered sullenly, hangover returning in full force as I sipped at the coffee Tamara had bought me earlier and tried not to pull a face; Americans brewed their coffee weaker than muddy water if you asked me.

"It's a date."

_This guy is unbelievable._

"No, it's an  _appointment_ ," I growled, fingers itching to hang up on the bothersome patient as I sighed and asked, "One last thing, I need your name for the booking...?"

When the man spoke it was all rolling "r"s and verbal flourish, as if I was supposed to suddenly recognise whoever the fuck he was the same way I would have if he'd said he was Prince Fucking Harry.

"Murdoc Niccals."

Fingers paused on the keyboard, I felt my lips draw into a smirk as I answered the only way a good receptionist knows how.

"How do you spell that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so yeah I'm sorry we're not getting a Sloane POV this time around (assuming you guys liked being inside her head hah) but give Oliver a chance I have so much planned for my little Aussie. This is going to be a very focused, short fic, unlike The Trapeze Swinger, and I'm really nervous to share it after everyone was so supportive because I don't want to let you guys down but anyway let's just give it a go shall we?


	3. Teeth? If They're Not Hers in My Neck Then I'm Not Interested

Something is eating him alive, he's sure of it. Inside out or outside in, either way it's only a matter of time before people start to notice.

His hands are trembling as he sits in the hire car, fingers still white-knuckled on the steering wheel but the engine has been off for five minutes and at this point he's unsure if he's ever going to be able to move.

_Let go. Now._

Nothing happens, just the same torture of his heart beating too fast, of his thoughts returning endlessly to the last time he saw his bandmates, almost a month ago now. Noodle, still an eternal force of passion and peaceful wisdom but now forever distant from the man who had half raised her. He supposed it was a byproduct of the trauma of severing her cyborg self's head from its body, yet could still not fully comprehend how the little girl he had taught to drive and cheat at cards could have grown into a woman so disinterested in his company. Then there was Russel, shrunken back down to his normal man-mountain size, refusing to acknowledge a word Murdoc spoke, no matter how hard he tried to elicit a response.   
                     The verdant flesh of his face contorts in a derisive sneer, then ripples into a self-conscious cringe as he thinks of all the one-sided conversations the two of them had put him through in the short time they had been reunited.

_Ungrateful bastards._

Sometimes he got so lonely that the sound of his own voice started to sound like a stranger's.

He finally lets go of the wheel to help himself to a key bump of cocaine, snorting the acrid white powder up his left nostril and tasting the numbing chemicals as they coat the back of his throat. Then the car door is swinging open and he's untouchable again like the world was never against him in the first place, expanding and flushing with hyper-colour.

A cigarette is lit, flame dazzling beside one cupped palm and there's the big inhale like he's trying to draw the smoke into the very lowest pit of his lungs until everything is at peace. Up the street to the dental clinic he had booked into, standing at the reflective glass door with his own large pupils staring back at him all round and endlessly dark until for a moment he's sure he can see the empty space behind them.

_She made me want to be so much more than this._

He watches the black holes become the puncture wounds set into her pallid ribcage, remembering the fever-heat of her skin against his fingertips as he stitched it back together. "Why are you being so nice to me" she had asked and it was the first time someone had ever called him "nice" in all his life. He'd laughed at her at the time, but she'd left him forever wanting to be worthy of the words, forever hating himself when they'd both realised he wasn't.

Dragging hard on the cigarette for the final time, he flicks it still smouldering at his feet, grinding a booted heel into the glowing tip until it's nothing but a smear of ash on the steps. The hateful view of himself is pushed roughly out of the way as he enters the clinic.

The girl with the thick Australian accent he had spoken to on the phone isn't present at the counter as he walks in, the sparse room devoid of colour save for the shimmer of bronzed veneer that the empty reception desk has been decked out in. The plaque affixed to the front of it reads proudly, " _Brody & Benson Dental Services_", yet neither of the bastards seem to be around. He takes the opportunity to help himself to another key bump, his nostril stinging as he saunters over to where the girl should have been waiting.

His blood is thrumming with powdered gold as he taps the bell using one long nail, blinking uselessly as he tries to focus on the reverberating metal top.

There's no immediate response, so he taps it again in a short staccato, imaging each bell toll as a higher or lower octave as he invents a small repetitive tune with it.

_Should send that to EMI and have it put on the next Gorillaz record._

"I'm coming!" An irritable voice calls out, and he smirks, playing the series of bell taps out once more for good measure when she doesn't immediately appear.

"I said I'm  _coming_ , you can quit pressing the bell already!"

Murdoc stills his finger, opening his mouth to comment a return dialogue he's sure she won't like. Something about her "coming" due to him fingering her bell; he's not sure what he says, forgets it almost immediately after the sound leaves his tongue. It doesn't matter, surely, as long as it gets her blushing.

When she steps around the corner it's a girl all in red and thunderous enough to be the devil herself. Chin-length hair is pushed impatiently behind her ear, bleached so blonde it's almost the bone-white of the cocaine baggy in his pocket, stark against the golden tan of her fingers. The blush he wanted isn't there, just a scowl dressed in a two-piece vermillion suit, but he still smirks as if he's just won a prize.

When she meets his gaze it's like all the hyper-colour of his high swells and then collapses as her face registers mild horror. Her long fingers leave her hair, fire extinguished from the flat blue of her eyes and he's watching her watch him with that elated thrumming in his bloodstream turning to the uneven thud of his cowardly heart.

_Of course._

Only a moment passes that she allows her shock to show but it's too late and Murdoc is remembering why it is that he woke alone that morning; Beauty and the Beast doesn't work if one of them is a green-skinned monster.

The dying tooth at the back of his mouth throbs in sudden agony, tasting the careless pride he usually carries desert him, leaving the man feeling strangely self-conscious as he stands there under the blatant disgust in her stare. He can remember when the other girl had looked at him like that, standing on the pink veneer of a plastic beach and telling him he was heartless. He shoves the memory away, thoughts returning to his bandmates and the way they had turned from him and kept turning and kept turning and then the receptionist is speaking and he's responding in well-rehearsed vulgarity but he can't find the fun in it anymore.

She hands him a form to fill out with his medical history and he stares at the words over and over without reading a single one until he realises that he has no one to put as his emergency contact because he's alone and that's fine that's fine that's cool that's fine because he's Murdoc Niccals and he doesn't need anybody but he's still staring at the paper and remembering the way it felt when She put her arms around him.

Like coming home, at last.

He fills out the form but he doesn't know what he's writing, slowly does not speak another word and when the dental nurse leads him into the surgery room he speaks before the dentist can even so much as tell him good morning.

"Pull the bloody thing out."

He's in the chair and he's still trying not to remember the start of the ache even as they slide a needle deep into the meat of his gums, the bitter anaesthetic mixing with those already coating the roof of his mouth.

His lips tingle, pain easing out of the hollow pockets in his skull, and he's asked if he can feel this, if he can feel that, a probing tool pricked into his palate. He says he can't but he doesn't know anymore, isn't able to differentiate between the ache of a rotten tooth and the knowledge, the bitter knowledge, that it had taken six years but in the end he'd lost her, lost the band, lost himself.

It's when the dentist rips the tooth from his jaw with an audible crack that Murdoc finally thinks of 2D. His eyes are closed as he sees himself as he had been a month ago, handing over the details of the girl's whereabouts to the More Worthy Man on a piece of paper, and tasting the blood as it runs down the back of his throat.


	4. 4.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NB: you'll find as you read that Oliver has many strong opinions, and some of them are very misinformed or warped for reasons relating to character history. These are NOT my opinions please don't rip me.

The first thing I noticed about him when he arrived was the fact he was green. How could I not? Green like fucking eucalyptus leaves in the summer, when the sunlight makes them go that powdery pale colour. Green like absinthe and soda, six glasses of it that last night I spent in Sydney before the aeroplane and the isolation. Green the exact way a human being shouldn't be unless they're rotting in a ditch.

I had been stealing packets of dental floss from the stock cupboards when I heard the reception bell being rung in a strange yet distinct pattern, like someone using it to make a little song. It was, in my opinion, fucking annoying.

"I'm coming!" I snapped in the general direction of the door that led out to the front room, stuffing two boxes of floss into the inner pockets of my blazer before rearranging the inventory so that my most recent acquisition wouldn't be noticed.

The bell-ringer started up their impromptu song again, and my jaw clenched as the remnants of my hangover pulled like cold wires through the meat of my brain. Standing up, I felt myself reach the end of my incredibly short fuse, my mouth opening to unleash the explosion of my irritation as I marched around the corner and into the reception area.

"I said I'm  _coming_ , you can quit pressing the bell already!"

A drawling voice replied, instantly recognisable from earlier and rasping with its own self-satisfaction.

"Tch tch, not very grateful for someone who just  _came_  over my skilful fingering of their bell."

_What kind of pommy pick... oh._

And there he was, green and grinning like an Unseelie court king from old tales of faerie. A fringe of jet black hair settling unkempt and messy above shrewd eyes half-lidded in boredom, their sockets looking bruised with lack of sleep. A thin face with a pointed chin, teeth slightly too crooked and ending in jagged edges, as if everything about him was sharp and uninviting.  
                   He looked like the sort of guy that picked fights in bars and lost, a visceral image helped by the bulging bridge of his nose; the cartilage shattered and set back together too many times to guess.

There was a part of me that wanted to tell him he was in fact far too ugly to be making sexual passes at dental employees, but I found myself for once too taken aback to comment as we stared each other off over the reflective bronze of the reception desk.

"You're..." I began finally, trailing off when all my mind would supply was the unhelpful observation of  _green_.

"Devilishly handsome and dripping in charisma? So I've been told," He supplied readily, slouching back to squint at me from beneath his dark lashes, "I believe it was you I had the distinct pleasure of speaking to on the phone?"

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, sitting down in the desk chair and logging on the daybook system that the 9:30am patient - Murdoc Niccals - had arrived for his consultation. Switching into autopilot, I looked up at where he was now lounging on the raised screen that my computer sat behind, leering down at me over the top of it.

"Did you bring your Health Fund card with you today, sir?" I asked in a monotone, watching his mouth curl ever so slightly into a smirk as I spoke.

"Mmm,  _'Sir'_ , I like that..."

"Your  _Health Fund card_ , Mr Niccals?" I repeated myself through gritted teeth, my hands flexing in and out of fists as I tried to maintain my temper.

"I don't have one, love," He sighed, his mirth flickering and dying into some new mood I couldn't pinpoint as he continued sagely, "Dental is covered by the NHS back home."

_Then go back there; lord knows Dr Brody doesn't deserve a dime._

"Lucky you," I intoned, picking up a clipboard with a medical history form attached and handing it to him, "Because you're a new patient I'm gonna need you to fill this out please."

The oddly green man nodded wordlessly, pupils blown wide as he seemed to look past and through me for a moment, his fingers crooked with pointed nails when he finally took the offered clipboard. His drop in expression left me feeling strangely unsettled, the suddenness of it so stark in comparison to his earlier self-satisfied jeering, but I shoved the feeling aside quickly, relaxing back into my seat as I realised the verbal duel had seemingly ended. Gesturing distractedly to the waiting-room armchairs in a silent dismissal of him, I returned my attention to the computer monitor.

Opening up Google, I typed quickly,  _can people have green skin?_ , before hitting "enter". As the web browser loaded, I peered over the desk to make sure the strangely subdued patient was completing his form and was mildly concerned to see him staring at the clipboard as if it held the secrets to the universe, his brows drawn together in some kind of terrible misery.  
                  Feeling irrationally guilty, I closed the search results without reading them, clearing my throat against the terrible discomfort of knowing I should probably ask him if he was okay.

"Hey... er, Mr Niccals," I began awkwardly, shifting in my seat as I tried to catch his eye, "Is everything alright?"

There was no response, the man seemingly catatonic as he stared at the unfilled document before him. It reminded me of the way I had stared at myself that morning, sickened by my reflection in the dirty mirror of a stranger's bathroom and feeling more alone than I could stomach.

_Don't start empathising with the prick; he'll score points off you._

It was a good piece of advice my rational brain supplied, yet there he was, looking like he might hang himself off the ceiling fan at any moment. It dragged on my withered heartstrings, tugging them out from where I'd had them murdered and buried. Stiff with agitation, I grit my teeth against the part of me that was selfishly chanting for my own silence and tried again, just in case.

"... because it's okay if you're not alright," I continued, losing confidence with each word I spoke until my carefully erected sense of cold stoicism started to crumble, "Or at least, that's what my mum used to tell me, but I think she only said it because she always had my sister Olivia crying over nothing and I think she wanted me to cry too just so she'd be able to say the little sulk was normal."

Too much ranting. I swallowed the rest of the verbal vomit, curling my hands into fists so that my nails carved half-moons into the flesh of each palm as I waited for the man's inevitable response to my breach of confidentiality.

_Can't handle a social interaction that isn't based on callous exchanges and sarcastic quips? Well come on down to_ Brody & Benson Dental Services _, where you can feel better as you watch self-proclaimed "Tough Bitch_ ™ _" Oliver Kirk fail at displaying basic human empathy._

He said nothing however, not even so much as stirring from his frozen state until another two minutes had passed and he finally began to write his details into the lines provided. Watching with my mouth half-open in disbelief, I let out a grateful sigh I hadn't realised I'd been holding. Despite having no real involvement in breaking him out of his stupor, as far as I was concerned it had been a job well done; a girl had to get points for trying.

_The Green Goblin Stunt-Double:_  0  
_Oliver Kirk, the Superior Kirk Twin and Empathetic Saint:_  A Holy 7

Pleased with my efforts in customer relations for the day, I relaxed back in my chair, picking lint off my scarlet suit pants and wishing for some painkillers as my headache started back up anew with the sudden realisation that my verbal slip had been the first time in weeks that I'd even so much as thought about my family back home in Blacktown. I could feel the heavy pressure on my chest increase as I let them briefly enter my mind, their faces looming up out of the carefully boxed and stored memories I kept locked away inside my skull.   
                 Olivia, her eyes wet with tears as she hugged me goodbye at the airport, then pulling away and scowling when she saw mine were dry. My mum, pulling me into a big bear hug and wailing about all the terrible people with guns that lived in the USA, while my dad looked on in embarrassed silence, acting like he was above the display when really we all knew he was nursing a killer hangover.

Fidgeting with discomfort, I mentally reset the sign at the entry to my useless brain so it read  _"Oliver Kirk's Mind, free from thoughts of family or homeland for_ ** _0_** _days",_ trying to relocate my self-centred centre so that I would no longer be plagued by such memories. Something started stinging behind my eyes, like my brain was trying to force them to water in some kind of weak emotional display, yet my body would not yield as I sat staring blindly into space until the sensation ebbed away.

Crying, if you asked me, was the ugliest thing a girl could do without taking her clothes off.

Eyeing the ludicrously green-skinned man over the counter with resentment, I was unprepared for when Tamara appeared from the hallway beside my desk with Mrs Johnstone in tow, nearly jumping a foot when they entered my peripheral. The elderly woman's glowing smile from a whole hour of Dr Brody's attention quickly faded into a grimace the moment we laid eyes on each other, her wrinkled lips pursing with displeasure. They looked like an anus set beneath her nose, and I had to bite my lip in an effort not to smirk.

Processing Mrs Johnstone's bill and health fund payment, I was distracted for when Tamara called Murdoc Niccals into the surgery, the man carelessly discarding his medical health form onto the counter as he passed. It made a soft thud, the paper fluttering briefly in place from where it was affixed to the clipboard, and I reached for it immediately.

"Do I get a receipt?" Mrs Johnstone was asking irritably, but I barely gave her so much as a glance to show I'd heard as I quickly scanned the scratchy block-lettered writing.

**_Full Name:_ ** _MURDOC FAUST NICCALS_  
**_Date of Birth:_ ** _JUNE 6TH, 1966_

I stopped there, doing the maths quickly while Mrs Johnstone fumed at the fact I'd ignored her. A smirk spread wide and bright across my face as I figured out his exact age.

_The dude is almost fifty and he was blatantly hitting on a twenty-one year old._

"I would like a receipt for my tax records," Mrs Johnstone sniffed, eyes narrowing into slits as I finally looked up at her with all my teeth on display.

"Yeah yeah, right here," I chirped, flicking the curling scroll of paper and health fund card over the counter at her while keeping a firm hold on the green way-past-mid-life crisis man's medical form, "We'll see you again soon I'm sure, Mrs J."

The old woman gave me a frosty look at my use of the nickname Tamara and I had given her despite her having openly declared on multiple occasions that she detested it. I maintained my smirk and waved to her cheerily, before returning my attention to the form.

**_Address:_ ** _220 HENDRIE STREET, DETROIT MI._  
**_Contact Number:_ ** _DON'T CONTACT ME_  
**_Emergency Contact Details:_ ** _______________

The emergency details had been left blank, the page heavily indented with a single pen mark as if it had been stabbed. Thoughts turning back to his strange earlier silence as he had filled out the form, I brushed my thumb across it, smearing still-wet black ink that had welled in the hole left behind.

_Fuckin' overly-dramatic goth grandpa._

The rest of it was a checklist asking whether or not the patient had hepatitis A, B, or C, HIV, AIDS, mouth herpes and so on, and I felt my smirk return as I noted as far as the dental industry was concerned, the man had a clean bill of health.

Not that I necessarily cared, it was just always good to know.

The next half an hour passed by slowly, as if time were moving through gelatinous matter as I watched the clock tick down each second painfully. The phone was silent, no emails had come through, and I was all out of receptionist duties after I had entered all of Murdoc Niccals' details into the booking system.

It took only ten minutes of idleness for me to find myself standing at the glass door, my forearm braced above my head as I stared wistfully out at the Ford Falcon XY parked beyond. My fingers twitched as I imagined how easy it would be to go to the staffroom and pilfer Dr Brody's car keys from his coat pocket, to unlock the sleek red vehicle and jump behind the wheel. The temptation was almost irresistible. I could almost hear the deep grumble of the engine as I'd turn it on, could almost smell the burnt rubber burnout I'd leave as I pulled out hard and fast into the street.

_Cool it you little car-thieving crook._

Stepping back from the door, I could still feel the itch in my fingers, the flush up my cheeks, everything uncomfortable and prickling. I clenched my jaw, hating the feeling even as I hated the impulse, yet the sense of loathing meant nothing to me at the end of the day; heaven knows it wouldn't stop me from pilfering more goods from the stock cupboard before the end of my shift.

The urge ate at me, gnawing hungrily at the flesh of my will even as I tried to smother it. There was a name for the condition I was sure, but nothing in the world could persuade me to look it up, to put myself in a box and stick a label the side before having the world close the lid on me.   
                    As far as I was concerned, Oliver Kirk didn't have mental health problems; she didn't cry, she didn't crumble, and she definitely didn't need a fucking counsellor. That was all my sister's forte; she got to be the Big Mess and I was the one who Just Got On With It. No way was I going to ask to switch roles this far into the play.

_**Note to Self:** change mantra from "when in doubt, go on a joyride" to "when in doubt, probably just don't fucking think about it."_

I had taken, for reasons unbeknownst to me, seven tubes of promotional sample size toothpaste by the time Murdoc Niccals reappeared in the reception. His dazed behaviour before was entirely missing from him as he stalked out from the hallway, looking smug and trailed by an abnormally brown-nosing version of Dr Brody.

"-and my son is just such a big fan of your band, has  _Gorillaz_  posters all over his walls -" The dentist simpered, piquing my interest before the other man cut him off nasally.

"Of course he does; anyone with half a brain owns some sort of  _Gorillaz_  paraphernalia," Murdoc drawled, waving a dismissive hand towards Dr Brody before turning his attention to me. There was a smear of red at the corner of his mouth from the bleeding socket of his extracted tooth.

_So that's why he told me his name like I should recognise it: he's in that British band that went missing a few years ago._

Trying not to look impressed whatsoever, I had to focus hard on my hands instead of his face as I processed his bill from codes that had been put into the online system from the treatment room. Behind the green-skinned man I could see my employer looking peevishly towards the back of his head, unused to being disregarded by anyone, let alone one of his patients.

It took all my power not to smirk.

"An extraction of tooth number 4.7, four separate roots, non-surgical... that'll be four-hundred dollars," I read out as I calculated the fee through the system codes, attempting  to make the sudden tension in the room less noticeable with the sound of my voice.

"No, that's incorrect, Oliver," Dr Brody snapped, coming around the side of the desk so that he was leaning over me to check the monitor.

The part of me that gave a shit what our celebrity patient thought cringed at the sound of my somewhat unorthodox name, hoping vainly that he somehow hadn't heard.

_If I have to explain to one more person that my parents were high when my twin and I were born, I will fucking lose it. Dumb Aussie ferals thinking that calling us_ **_Olivia_ ** _and_ **_Oliver_ ** _was funny..._

Narrowing my eyes, I rechecked my calculation and came up with the same sum to be paid, glaring up at the dentist as his pungent cologne tainted the air around me. The man gave me a stern look, then placed the clammy palm of his hand over mine on the computer mouse and clicked to edit the treatment codes he himself had entered previously.

Previously to Mr Murdoc Niccals treating him like a hideous wannabe groupie, that is.

I yanked my hand disgustedly out from under the man's, wheeling my chair out of the way of the computer so that I was no longer in his cloud of pheromones. I found I couldn't meet the green man's gaze as my vengeful boss entered the invoice code for a surgical extraction, the price jumping up from $400 to $650 with a few clicks of the mouse.  
                  Dr Brody stood back, gesturing pointedly for me to return to my spot in front of the computer, and after pausing to try and bite my tongue, I did so. My headache throbbed as I looked defeatedly up at Murdoc.

"I'm sorry, it seems I was mistaken," I mumbled, my fingers flexing with discomfort as I swallowed my sense of morality and told him, "That will be six-hundred-and-fifty dollars for today's treatment."

"All good...  _Olivia,_  was it?" The green-hued man asked, the beginnings of a mirthful grin already playing at the edges of his lips as he watched my face drop.

_He heard. Smug bastard._

"No, it wasn't," I snapped irritably, staring him down as his grin became fully fledged and spread across his face.

The amusement he found in the ill-chosen name my parents had cursed me with was not a unique trait; it was in fact, almost as boring to me as if he were to find amusement in slapstick comedy. It took little intelligence to say what he said next.

"Hmm so it  _was_  Oliver... and here I was thinking you were a woman."

Something snapped inside the cavern of my skull, all the dehydrated and bruised meat of my brain coming to a single aching conclusion; it was time to lose my temper.

"I  _am_  a woman you fucking moron," I hissed, completely forgetting that Dr Brody was standing right beside me.

Murdoc's smile never faltered, him leaning over the desk towards me so that I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. One of them was slightly pink and glassy, as if infected.

"Mmm and how would you like to prove that, later tonight at mine?" He drawled lazily, as if he didn't care for what my answer was either way.

I found it infuriating.

"In your  _dreams_ , you conceited little pommy pri-"

"Oliver!"

At the sound of Dr Brody's voice, I jolted back into reality, remembering the one cardinal rule of customer service I had neglected to follow: don't lose your rag at a customer when your boss is standing two feet away.

Without skipping a beat, I immediately neutralised my expression, meeting the patient's gaze once more and speaking bluntly.

"My apologies, Mr Niccals."

_Fifty-year-old fucker._

Still smirking, a green hand was held up in careless dismissal of what we both knew were empty words. Looking between us, the dentist nodded gravely as if he were once more in control, before leaning in towards me.

"We're definitely going to need to have a chat about your conduct these past few days after closing," Dr Brody purred quietly, thin lips moving close enough to my ear for me to feel each hot puff of his moist breath on my skin.

I clenched my fists, nails digging into the flesh of my palms as I fought the urge to openly retch. The memory of our last "after work meeting", three weeks ago now, flashed vividly into my minds eye, the vision of the way his gaze had gone dark with predatory intent, the way his hands had moved so self-assuredly to press hungry against the swell of my hips.  
                  Jaw set, I shivered, sliding in my wheeled chair so that the man no longer encroached on my personal space before I flicked my gaze back to Mr Niccals.

He had been watching the exchange with those strangely shrewd eyes of his, lip curling ever so slightly when I dared look into them with the most forcibly neutral expression I could muster. It was as if he decided something, the smile a secret signal meant for only me, yet I couldn't tell what he meant by it.

I didn't care; his goading had just landed me back in the nightmare I'd been trying to escape for weeks.

"Will that be cash or card?" I asked flatly, hyperaware of Dr Brody studying me intently from his vulture-like stance beside me. I flinched when he placed his hand on my shoulder, then deadened my expression once more.

"Cash," The green-skinned man rasped in response, still looking between the possessive curl of the dentists fingers on my upper arm and my poker face before continuing with a smirk, "And for you, will that be drinks or dinner tonight?"

_Smooth Operator With No Sense of Rejection:_ 2  
_The Usually Stoically Unimpressed Oliver Kirk, Blushing Like A Loser for Reasons Unknown:_  0

The tips of Dr Brody's fingers dug into my shoulder as he tightened his grip, and Murdoc gave me that sort of half-smile once more, as if we were both in on the same deliciously malicious private joke. Dazedly taking the fold of green notes he offered, I counted them out distractedly, my gaze flicking between the money and the faint amusement on his face.

_Haven't I already rejected him multiple times today? Hasn't he already put me in enough trouble with Dr Brody? Why would he..._ **_Oh._ **

Realising that he was purposefully trying to piss off the lecherous dentist, as well as give me an excuse to not be able to stay back for the threatened meeting, I felt my previous animosity towards him melt away. It slipped from between my fingers even as I tried to retain my grip, leaving me with only a feeble remaining resentment towards him for managing to make me blush.

"Drinks sound great," I said slowly, jerking my right arm forwards to give him his change and receipt, relieved as I felt the movement cause Dr Brody's grip to fall from my shoulder, "Wanna pick me up from here at five?"

"It'd be my pleasure, love."

Placing the change neatly in his wallet and pocketing it, a single green hand rose to itch at the back of his skull where the longer black locks of his hair curled ever so slightly. Catching me watching, he flashed a crooked grin that had my cheeks flushing once more.

I had to hand it to him; he was charming, in an irritating kind of way.

The blood was still dried in a smear at the corner of his mouth, and perhaps I did it because I hated not having the upper hand, perhaps because I wanted to rub Dr Brody's nose in it, but without knowing exactly why I found myself pulling a fresh white tissue from the box on the desk, standing so we were face to face. Hand placed lightly on his shoulder to keep him still, I watched his hazel eyes widen as I lifted the tissue to my lips, dampening it with my tongue in a slow movement that both the dentist and the patient followed intently. I almost grinned with satisfaction at having finally made him nervous in return as I dabbed the blood away with the saliva-dampened cotton, before leaning back all pretend-innocent as he released the breath he'd been holding.

"There you go, now you're fit for the public eye," I said with a winning smile, feeling Dr Brody palpably bristle beside me.

Murdoc simply smirked, winking as he turned with an unfazed wave and called back over his shoulder, "Thanks love, I'll see you at five."

Watching the glass door swing shut after he left, my grin remained spread wide across my face until the exact moment that I heard Dr Brody's voice once more, soft and dangerous in the suddenly all too quiet and still space.

"I suppose this kind of behaviour is acceptable where you come from, Oliver?"

The way he said it was pure malice, laced with intent of a swift retribution. I could taste bile as I turned to face him, nails digging painfully into my palms as I clenched them hard enough to keep from shaking.

"I'm very sorry, sir," I placated him, opening my eyes wide and doe-like in the hope he would believe the lie, "I'm sure this will never happen again."

He softened, broad chin jutting out towards me as he considered my apology for a silent moment in which I held my breath. It was a sickening relief when his hand lifted to my chin, tilting it so I had to look into his hungry gaze, his thin lips moving slowly in response.

"Be sure it doesn't, I wouldn't want to be forced to let you go," He murmured, the threat veiled as a warning, "I'm not sure Wayne State would still want to offer a scholarship to a student who couldn't handle the professional environment of one of their esteemed graduates."

Doctor Brody's history with the university that I had been studying Dentistry at; it was a particular favourite among all his power-plays. At his comment I found myself having to clench my jaw to keep from smirking.

I hadn't been to a single college class in over a month.

The man mistook the tension in my face for fear rather than amusement, and he gave me a satisfied smile as he moved in closer, the pad of his thumb running along my lower lip in a sickening smear.

"You're lucky I like you, Oliver."

_More like fucking cursed with bad luck._

I swallowed, forcing my expression to be one devoid of all emotion as I nodded slowly.

"Thank you, sir."

When he smiled it was the promise of things to come, his voice a purr, "So you'll be more than happy to stay after work for us to discuss the terms of your employment further, yes?"

I stepped back from his touch, the back of my left thigh hitting the reception desk-chair and sending it skidding away the way I wished I could. Dr Brody's gaze never wavered, pinning me in place as I pasted on a toothless smile of submissive pretence.

"Yes, of course," I lied, already wondering which type of drink I'd have Murdoc Niccals buy me first.


	5. The Unrivalled Horror of Performance Anxiety

He's glowingly high on white powder when he comes to pick her up, floating from his hire car to the glass door of the dental clinic on a cloud of dopamine. Everything blurs between the sun setting and the smell of leather from his jacket, then The Wrong Girl slinking down the concrete steps towards him with her sharp-toothed smile.

The shadow of doubt that had made her for a moment seem vulnerable when he'd last seen her is now missing, her face returned to an inscrutable mask of apathy. She still looks like the devil but he finds he doesn't care, standing up straighter and offering her his arm as if they were on a prom-date set in America's past.

"I just left the surgery keys on the reception desk and walked out of there as soon as the clock ticked over," Oliver laughs dryly, "Do you think my boss is going to kill me?"

"Oh, doubtless," Murdoc drawls in response, and she grins like he's something she would love to eat.

Then to the car, the girl stopping dead in her tracks when he opens the door for her. He sniffles back the cocaine-induced wetness inside his left nostril, leaning at a slouch on the vehicle as he gestures wordlessly for her to get in.

"Holy shit, you own a Convertible Cadillac?" She asks excitably, the most animated he's seen her yet, and he can't help but feel smug when he replies.

"A 1961 Series 62 Convertible Cadillac, actually."

Her fingers twitch towards the steering wheel when she slips inside, but he doesn't notice in all the haze and the warmth of the void being slowly filled, in drips and grains and small fragments that will by the end of the night form a whole. At least, that's what he tells himself, taking his place in the driver's seat and starting up the engine with a twist of the silver key in the ignition.

Oliver has already opened the glove compartment, fishing around in there and pulling out a selection of three cassette tapes. He tries not to watch her as she blows into one to make sure it's clean, revving the engine and pulling out into the street as her long fingers place the tape into the player. The first two tracks are skipped, the trafficlights ahead turning orange as they approach.

"Floor it," Oliver Kirk commands, turning the volume on the stereo up to it's maximum as she adds with the faintest trace of a smile, "Have a bit of go about ya, Murdoc  _Faust_  Niccals."

Mick Jagger's deep and gravelly vocals on  _Ruby Tuesday_  start exactly as they hit the red at 50mph, and for a moment she feels they're flying. Yes, later on there would be mouthfuls of roadside gravel and broken glass, but for now they're an invincible blur no ulterior force could hope to hold.

_"She would never say where she came from_  
_Yesterday don't matter if it's gone"_

Out into the growing dark, the orange of the streetlights flashing across the white of her hair as they drive in and out of their golden pools. He doesn't know where he's taking her but she's just enjoying the thrum of the engine it seems, tapping her nails to the beat of the music and watching the city flicker past at speed. Lower lip bitten and rolled between teeth, then those frosty blue eyes sliding over to meet his and he wonders how long it'll be until she's biting his lips like that.

"My dad used to fix up cars like these," She tells him suddenly, avoiding his gaze as soon as the words leave her mouth.

Murdoc waits for her to continue but she doesn't, instead frowning and closing up like an oyster hiding the soft flesh of it's insides behind a wall of razor-sharp shell. For a moment he considers asking her to explain further, to ask about this father of hers who did mechanic work on old Cadillacs in the past, but he doesn't.

He doesn't want to.

He wants another line, he wants a glass of whisky on the rocks; he has no interest in whatever it is the devil-woman has to say about her dad.

His silence makes her hands shake. They turn to curled fists on her lap and her nails break the soft skin of her palms in red welts he won't notice until later, when everything has been said and done and it doesn't matter if he wishes to hear what happened to the vintage cars because its over; she's already long gone.

The green-skinned man pulls up near the next nondescript bar he sees, pulling a small baggy of white powder from his jacket pocket as soon as the engine cuts. Oliver looks like she might say something before she notices he's cutting out two thick lines on the smooth surface of his touch-phone screen, whatever words had begun to form on her tongue being abruptly swallowed. Murdoc uses a twenty-dollar note to snort the larger trail in one sharp inhalation, looking skywards as he sniffles and sighs when it spreads an acrid-tasting numbness down the back of his throat. It tingles in the space where his molar had been, and he tries not to think of where the other girl is right now.

_In the arms of a black-eyed moron._

He passes the rolled banknote to The Wrong Girl, holding the iPhone steady for her while she tentatively leans forward to mirror his method of breathing in the powder, one finger pressed to her unused nostril. As soon as she's done he runs his finger through the few crumbs left behind and rubs it across his gums while she watches with a smirk.

"Numbing your mouth up again are we?" Oliver teases, only explaining when he looks confusedly over at her, "That's what they first used coke for: dental anaesthetic."

"Hmph, bloody waste if you ask me," Murdoc huffs, swinging his car door open and stepping out onto the pavement with a dismissive wave of his hand.

The girl follows suit, the animalistic grin back on her face as she watches him over the roof of the car for just a moment. Their eyes meet in the dark and she's back on top, back in the game, ready for round two but this time with the gloves off and both their fists turning raw-knuckled against each other's flesh. He sees it in the way they glitter, feels it in the way her stare makes his stomach clench with an unfamiliar anxiety.

"So, love, keen for a drink then?" He asks, pointing with a thumb to the bar behind him nonchalantly.

"Very," She laughs, "Its the best cure for a hangover I've found yet."

Murdoc smirks but it's merely a facade of warmth; her words sound too much like his own, forever ago, before every day had been a hangover from start to finish and it had become the new version of normal. Still, she was right. The best cure for normal was a good stiff drink.

He orders two once they get inside the bar, sizing her up and deciding she's a vodka kind of girl rather than a bourbon one. When the glasses are slid across the bench top towards him they're potent doubles, whisky with a large rectangle of ice sitting like the Titanic among the tawny liquid, and hers a vodka and cranberry juice. Murdoc passes it to her and earns himself a skeptically raised brunette eyebrow, hinting of whatever natural colour her hair would be without the bleach.

"A sweet little vodka mixer? How cute," She says with a laugh, tipping the entire thing back in an easy couple of quick swallows before continuing, "But I'm not a fifteen-year-old about to get drunk off her first sip."

Oliver turns away from Murdoc to order a round of tequila shots, and the man can't help but feel like he's just entered some kind of terrifying alternate reality where the girl he's drinking with won't get drunk off a few watered down shots of spirits. He throws back the whisky in a bitter gulp, watching her as she leans onto the bar to talk to the boy behind it, seeing as if for the first time the thickness of her frame, the supple yet solid build of her body wrapped up in all that red. 

_Not a lightweight then._

When she returns with the tray of shots he takes her to a darkened, quieter corner of the bar, the both of them making a show of their tongues to lick the salt before downing one each. Teeth sinking bright white into the flesh of a lime whilst Murdoc sucks on his, nice and slow with the sour taste spreading tingling across his tongue.

"So how does it feel no longer having a tooth?" Oliver asks him, face blank and lips curving in a smirk as if to say  _impress me, impress me._

"How does it feel working for a pervert?" Murdoc drawls in response, a question for a question and she leans back with her arms crossed.

"Touché."

She changes the subject, asking him about his band. He doesn't want to think about it, much less talk, but she looks genuinely intrigued and he can't pass up an opportunity to gloat.   
He tells her of his daring escape from The Plastic Beach between shots, of the release of the island album whilst still in hiding. He makes it sound like it had been him alone against the pirates and their warplanes; Noodle a useless contender hellbent on revenge, Russ a dimwitted giant sick from polluted waters. Of 2D's fate on  _Fl_ _oor B2_  he breezes over briefly, finding the guilt of it too thick to talk past in the sudden swell of his throat.

There's no mention of the girl he found in the rubble of a collapsed elevator box, screaming her lover's name. He swallows the memory of the way she felt like a fever in his arms, against his chest; might as well have written her name in third degree burns across the entirety of him for how it felt to press skin to skin.

Back to the bar to order another round, an interlude in the women's bathrooms to have the next lines of cocaine; there's plenty of ways to keep from thinking about it. Drink poured down eager throats, limbs being soothed with slow-spreading fire as the alcohol hits and the two of them hit back. The violent amber glow returns but this time he isn't alone in it, he isn't trapped within the syrupy night as the vision starts to blur; Oliver is with him, all quick wit and sharp-edged tongue, and when he finally pulls her close enough he is pleased to find it isn't sharp at all.   
                       Mouths meet open and wanting, a familiar sensation that blocks out any chance of Murdoc having to contend with that same strange agitation from before. Fingers catching in the hair that curls at the nape of his neck, she turns to embers in his arms as she pulls at his clothes, as she presses their bodies together. It's a welcome distraction, who cares if it's empty.

He asks her if she's coming back to his place and her answer is to pick up her scarlet blazer from where it hangs on the back of the chair, lips pink from the press of his own.

"Come on then."

The two of them stumbling to the car, his keys flashing in his hands and he wonders only briefly how far over the limit he is when he looks over to her from the driver's seat. Her smile tells him it doesn't matter, all that matters is getting to 220 Hendrie Street as fast as possible.

In hindsight later, when he looks back at the blur before the broken windscreen spreading like diamonds across the roadside, he would realise he should have been asking her to put on her seatbelt rather than to change the cassette tape to something other than  _The Rolling Stones_.

The engine starting sounds like the growl of a beast in the darkness. She ejects the tape and places a new one in as he pulls out from the kerb.

_"Darling you got to let me know_  
_Should I stay or should I go?"_

Wind tearing at their hair, one of his hands steering and the other holding her steady as she leans out of the passenger side window to sing  _The Clash_  at the cars they overtake. He's behind the wheel and speeding them both towards all the little blurring lights, and the girl can't find herself caring if it's cast from oncoming traffic or angels because how can one care whilst they're sitting halfway out the window and screaming for the world?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're still just easing into the story so bear with me please 
> 
> Also more importantly everyone please look at this amazing artwork that [fairwhale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairwhale/pseuds/fairwhale) drew for this fic! I'm in love with it ♥
> 
>   
>  [source](http://seek-the-night.tumblr.com/post/176065002724/a-lil-illustration-kind-of-for-this-amazing-work)


	6. 4.3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait for this chapter, the old depression had me in the boxing ring this month and I was being too hyper-critical about my writing to actually post it.   
> Just gonna pre-warn people now that as this is a loose sequel to The Trapeze Swinger, if you haven't read it then there will definitely be some moments when you're like "what is gremlinteeth talking about??" but idk if you can move past that it's probably still semi-readable if you haven't read it's precursor

The last thing I knew was the warmth of Murdoc's hand on my leg being suddenly wrenched away as the front left wheel hit a pothole at speed. A bang as it burst beneath me and I was falling through space with my lips still forming the next lyric of  _London Calling_.

_"The ice age is coming, the sun is zooming in  
Meltdown expected, the wheat is growin' thin"_

Then static, my mind a defunct television set searching for signal in the brief black and white before I woke once more.

_The fucking gremlin-looking bastard just almost killed me._

I opened my eyes blearily, everything in and out of focus until I had to shut them again in agony. My tongue flashed to my front teeth, licking at their smooth edges in search of anything broken, before feeling relief flood my body as I ascertained that they were still intact. I was lying sprawled on a grassy verge, skull throbbing from taking the brunt of the impact in my crash-landing. Distantly I was aware of Murdoc groaning and hissing profanities from somewhere to my left, and drunkenly decided to remain in my corpse-like position until he'd apologised.

The nighttime dew beading the grass soaked cold against my skin as I waited, a memory stirring from the depths of my usually boxed-up and padlocked subconscious. It prickled against the bruising pain in my temple, made my fingers twitch. I could remember the exact way the rain had been falling down in a light mist, the air itself a damp, heavy thing. A sheen on the road as if it had been made of black glass instead of tar, and when the tires of our car had hit it even my dad had yelled out in fear. Nothing eloquent, nothing worth remembering, but I could still hear the sound of his voice cracking on the word, could still see his hands on the wheel as he tried to steer out of the skid and the stomach-turning sensation as the vehicle fishtailed.   
                       It had taken twenty minutes for the emergency services to get there, and by the time they did I had been soaked to the bone in the passenger seat, all that soft gentle dew settled on my eyelashes so that the paramedic mistook the droplets for tears.  _It's alright sweetheart, don't cry_ , he had said and it sounded so stupid that I'd started laughing and kept laughing even as they pulled me from the mess of the car except it wasn't laughter it was a terrible wheezing because I couldn't breathe and I still can't breathe -

"Oliver?"

I opened my eyes a crack, looking up into the blur of a streetlight and the silhouette of whoever had spoken my name so tentatively it was barely more than a whisper. For a hazy second I thought it was my dad, standing over me the way he'd done all those years ago when I'd woken up in the hospital after the accident, his face a mixture of guilt and grief. Yet, after blinking rapidly a few more times I realised it was in fact just Murdoc Niccals, his thumbs hooked in his jeans pockets and his pallid green face a bloodied, bruising mess.

_He looks like he's just seen a ghost._

His eyes were wide, pupils dilated as he stared down at me in some kind of dazed horror, as if he were looking through me and seeing someone else lying there in the rubbled repercussions of his actions.

It served him right as far as I was concerned.

_Crazy-Driver Niccals, Unfit To Operate A Motorised Vehicle:_  -3  
 _Oliver Kirk, Car Fanatic and Second-Time Survivor Of A Crash:_  8

Behind him, smoking profusely with damage and looking ready to blow at any second was the gorgeous red Cadillac Convertible, its front bumper embedded in the trunk of a tree. The hood was peeled back in a crumpled curl of metal, like someone had fucked up opening a can of sardines, and the airbag was deflating in a noisy hiss. Disturbingly, it had been the passenger side that had taken the brunt of the blow, and I shuddered to think what would have happened if I hadn't been sitting half out the window and fallen.

Not that I blamed my driver; I knew all about instincts, all about thoughtless movements. I knew exactly what it looked like when your father's hands gripped the steering wheel and turned you, his thirteen-year-old daughter, into oncoming traffic.

_Cut the trip down memory lane. Nostalgia is for fuckwits._

"You murdered your car," I muttered, disinterested in the fact it seemed that the force of the airbag had broken Murdoc's already mangled nose.

"It was a hire car," He sniffed derisively, the trance-like fear fading from his visage so quickly I was no longer quite sure it had ever been there to begin with. He watched me for a moment longer before adding gruffly, "Well, are you going to get up then? Or am I going to have to call for an ambulance, one which  _you_  will be paying for by the way, hehehgh."

I imagined the American paramedics poking and prodding at me with their nasal Detroit accents, calling me Ma'am as if it were pronounced "meyam" and then charging me my life-savings for even so much as giving me a once-over to check I wasn't dead.

_I think I'd rather have died on impact and be already walking into hell than go through that._

"Are you usually such a shit driver?" I muttered sullenly as I tried to sit up, feeling dizzy and nauseous at the slight movement.

The green-skinned man scowled, opening his mouth as if to deny the claim before he stopped, frown fading as he thought for a moment. I was on my hands and knees trying to not let him see I was nearly retching with motion sickness when he finally responded.

"I suppose 2D would like to tell you I am," Murdoc sniggered, his hand catching the back of my blazer and hauling me roughly to my feet as if I were no more than a grubby sack of potatoes.

I could have been grateful that he'd helped me up, but in all honestly the entire gesture just fucked me off.

"2D... is he the hot one in your band?" I asked sweetly, schooling my face into one of innocence despite the malicious intent behind the words, "Tall, blue haired, sings like a sex-god?"

This was in fact the only thing that I could remember in regards to any of the members of  _Gorillaz_ , save for the fact that when I was younger my favourite member had actually been the little girl that beat up zombies in one of their more famous film clips. She'd had a strange name, but I couldn't recall it now.

My lack of knowledge didn't seem to matter however, as with my comment Murdoc's face turned stony and cold, any sense of warmth between us dying the moment he heard me praising his bandmate. I was swaying with dizziness as he spat venomously on the grass verge at his feet, lighting up a cigarette from his pocket and turning away as he inhaled deeply. The lit tip glowed in the dark as he left the pool of light cast by the flickering streetlamp, returning to his quietly smouldering hire car and taking all his cassettes from the glovebox.

"You owe me a new Clash tape," He drawled over his shoulder as he began walking out into the vastly empty street, no buildings either side of the road save for a solitary hulking house in the distance.

For the first time I properly looked around, realising I had no fucking clue where I was. The grass I stood on was patchy and unkept, the road beyond it cracked and uneven from the roots of the thick-trunked trees stretching beneath the asphalt. The pothole that had burst the front tire of the Cadillac was a dry moon-like crater in the neglected surface, dark and sinister with the throw of the lamplight.

My head was still a painful, dull thing, sitting useless atop my shoulders as I tried to make the world stop spinning.

"Well, are you going to stand there looking like a brainless halfwit all night?" Murdoc called irritably from halfway down the street, his voice loud in the night.

Getting called a halfwit by a negligent driver was irritating enough for me to clench my jaw, yet not enough to make me lose my rag again. The spirits I'd drunk earlier still sung angelic choir music within my bloodstream, all gold and warmly humming. A girl couldn't stay properly mad with anyone whilst listening to such a honeyed tune.

In a deliberately sloth-like speed of movement I stalked dizzily over to him, asking scathingly, "What romantic delight do you have in store for us next? After not offering to pay for my drinks all night and then crashing your car into a tree and almost killing us both it may be hard to find a way to outdo yourself."

Murdoc gave me a look of sour distaste, hazel eyes narrowing as if he'd suddenly realised he found me loathsome.

_Join the club, I'll knit us some matching jackets._

Cigarette perched between thin lips, the red tip cast a ruddy glow to his skin as he inhaled. The colour muddied the green tones of his gaunt cheeks, and for a second I could see how he would look if he were of a normal, human hue. My mouth opened slightly in surprise, the world continuing to oscillate whilst my head spun anticlockwise. Murdoc looked like he was about to snap a nasty reply before he paused, scrutinising my face as I swayed on the spot.

"You've gone grey," He murmured, reaching out to steady me with one of his hands while he slowly waved the other in front of my vision, "Did you happen to fall on your head, hmm?"

There was a brief pause in which I didn't immediately respond and he smirked before adding, "I mean, not just when you were an infant, I'm asking about what happened just now."

"Very funny,  _The Grinch That Stole Christmas_ ," I drawled back, only too aware of the black spots appearing in my vision, of the sensation of my legs quivering.

Murdoc only had time to shoot me a venomous yet slightly perturbed expression before I closed my eyes against the sight, against the dizziness, feeling the ground rise up to meet me in another hard collision that had my teeth clicking together.

_If my incisors just chipped I am going to scream._

A barely conscious check with my tongue then into the black and blue, all the layers of shadow and repressed memory blurred and blent until I was unsure of anything at all. I could have imagined the green-skinned man call my name in alarm, could have dreamt of the feel of his fingers at my pulse, then his arms strong around me as he picked me up and threw me over his shoulder.

"You're heavier than you look," He huffed in surprise, his breath a shiver-inducing warmth against the bare skin of my hip where my shirt and blazer had ridden up.

I mumbled something wordless in the dimness, trying to say "fuck you, goblin king" but failing to utter a single comprehensible syllable. When he laughed it was soft and gentle, so unlike his usual derisive sniggering.

"Sorry love; the last bird I carried weighed about the same as a bloody sparrow."

He said the phrase like it was an insult, yet there was an undercurrent to it of unexpected warmth, as if whoever the hollow-boned girl of the past was she remained somehow special to him. In all honestly it fucked me off; I mean, I was the semi-conscious girl with the smashed in skull. The bastard should have been showering me in attention and concern, not thinking about lovers from the past.

"Put me... down then," I mumbled, then dry-retched at the motion sickness induced by his swaggering gait, by my head lolling against his spine.

"I'd love to, but can't," He drawled in reply, hitching me up just a little further onto his shoulder as he continued dryly, "You're quite clearly concussed."

The jerking movement made the world swirl behind my closed eyelids, and I groaned and retched again.

"If you vomit on my jacket I won't hesitate to throw you in the gutter."

_Charming._

He finally stopped moving, the sound of keys jangling in his hands as he fumbled to pull them from his pocket while holding me upright. The lock clicked open, then a high pitched creak sounded as a door was pushed inward.  
                    Even in my dizzy, inebriated state, I was dimly aware of the smell of dust and the air of rooms that had sat long undisturbed by the living.

_Please don't tell me he's taken me into that creepy abandoned-looking house that was at the end of the street._

Murdoc unceremoniously dumped my semi-conscious form onto something soft and cushy, my landing sending out a puff of musty odour that spread stale into my airways and made me cough at the taste. Slowly opening my eyes, I blearily looked around to see I had been dropped onto a leather couch, studded with cigarette burns and other stains across the well-worn surface. The walls of the space were a deep leaf-green, the paint chipped and cracked from age. I frowned as I saw someone had hung up a crooked family portrait on one of them, depicting a large African American man sitting in a high-backed seat, surrounded on all sides by a motley crew consisting of a little girl grinning ear to ear, a blue haired brooding boy dressed like a sheriff, a monkey wearing human clothes, and none other than a younger, happier looking Murdoc Niccals.

The older, sourer Murdoc of the present day was nowhere to be seen.

Trying to sit up, I frowned against the sobriety that was kicking in now that the shock of the accident was finally getting to me, clenching my jaw and hearing it click from the pressure. Everything was still slowly rotating, my forehead pulsing with a sharp lancing pain that was enough to make me wince yet not enough to deter me as I managed to get myself into a seated position on the mangy sofa.

No one had asked me, but if they had I would have told them straight up; tonight had been one of the worst dates I'd ever been on, including the time when Ryan Jennings from my Year 8 class had asked out Olivia and when her anxiety had been too much to handle I had gone instead. I could see myself now, fourteen and already carrying all the bravery between us as my twin sister sobbed on her baby blue bedspread. I'll go, I had offered the hysterical girl, I'll pretend to be you and see if he's worth you getting out of the house for next time.  
                          A generous offer, one which she accepted gratefully and I carried out resentfully later as I endured getting coffee with a boy who spent almost the entire time telling me, Oliver Kirk, that the twin who had inherited all the charm, beauty and wit out of the two of us was in fact Olivia. Our coffee date lasted ten minutes, I spoke two words, and then it abruptly ended as I dumped the contents of my cup into his lap.

Rest assured, Olivia didn't get a second date and I was never trusted with anything by her again.

I was pulled from my reverie as Murdoc returned to the room, leather jacket absent and white t-shirt stained with an alarming amount of blood that had been gushing from his re-broken nose. Shaking my head to rid myself of the useless memories, I tried to distract myself from the odd squeezing feeling in my chest by giving the man a once-over.   
               He had washed his face, the green skin bruising but otherwise unmarred. The bowl-cut fringe was wet and scruffy, as if he'd tried to fix it back in place half heartedly, and he held a freezer bag of peas in one hand and a bottle of scotch in the other. Boots off, he had surprisingly dainty feet, and I watched as he self-consciously shifted his weight on them as if he were unused to such intense scrutiny.

I felt my lips curve into a smirk.

"How's your head?" He asked gruffly, tossing the icy bag onto my lap without waiting for my answer. I scowled.

"It's fucking brilliant, Nurse," I snapped sarcastically, then flinched at the bright white pain of my own volume.

Behind my closed eyelids, everything was still white noise and static, the useless tendrils of meat and memory tapping out Morse code rhythms instead of speaking to me. I felt the sofa sink as Murdoc sat beside me, then the bag of frozen peas be lifted from my lap.

Blessed cold against my temple, then his deep drawling voice.

"You're obviously concussed, Oliver."

_Tell me something I don't know, dickhead._

Aloud I only muttered, "Thanks for the diagnosis."

He sighed in a short irritable huff of air, and I felt the icy touch of the bag leave my skull as he shoved it into my own palm. I opened my eyes to give him a mutinous look, but his attention had turned to the bottle of scotch as he cracked it open and took a long swig of the caramel liquid within.

"Look love, don't think for a second that I care beyond making sure I don't get another court-sentenced gig looking after a vegetable," Murdoc sneered after swallowing his mouthful of spirits, rolling his eyes when I gave him a bewildered look before he continued, "But I'm going to ask you a few basic personal questions to make sure you're not entirely brain-dead after that little bump to the head."

I glared at him, still entirely confused about the vegetable comment but unwilling to show it as he smirked at my malcontent. I hated giving up personal information at the best of times, but with my mind still swimming through a stream of blurred consciousness the idea sounded borderline barbaric.

"No thanks, Oscar the Grouch," I replied dryly, watching his smirk fade into a peevish scowl at my words.

"Then I guess I need to call that Very Expensive American ambulance then, hmm?" He jeered in quick response, and I grit my teeth as I thought once more about the paramedics manhandling me into their obnoxiously loud vehicle.

_Fuck._   
_1 point to Mouldy Niccals._

"Fine!" I hissed, watching him smile nastily whilst taking another swig from the scotch. The sight made me thirsty, hands itching to take the bottle from him, but I refrained as I waited for him to finally swallow and ask his questions.

"What's your name?"

"This is stupid," I groaned, hand still pressing the frozen peas to the large bruise on my forehead.

"Alright,  _This Is Stupid_ , where are you from?" Murdoc continued with a snigger.

"Blacktown, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia," I snapped, "Is that specific enough for you?"

He blinked, sounding genuinely intrigued when he asked, "So what brings you out here, to  _Detroit_  of all places, hmm?"

I grimaced at the question, trying not to think of all the various irrational details that had eventually led me to here. An accident, a sudden interest in teeth, a long-standing rivalry with my twin sister, a stupid love of Ford cars, a bet, and my own reckless pride; it was a story hardly worth telling. Especially considering I'd gone home with him to fuck, not to share anecdotes. 

"I came here to study dentistry," I finally mumbled, closing my eyes so I didn't have to look at the broken mess of his nose.

"Heh, so you're a sadist in training then?" Murdoc teased in quick response, voice raspy and low. It sounded like honey over razor blades as the thickly spoken words reached my ears, and I tried not to shiver.

Openly, I kept my face in an unimpressed mask of indifference as I intoned, "Yes, because only a  _sadist_  would follow a profession that strives to prevent and stop people's pain. Makes  _perfect_  sense, Niccals."

Against the backs of my closed eyelids I saw for a moment my own mouth, full of congealed blood and broken teeth as it had been the day of the crash. The right-side central and lateral incisors, their corners shattered when my face had hit the dashboard. Excruciating pain like none I had ever known, fixed only after two root canals, two large fillings. The car had been too vintage to contain a passenger airbag, an oversight that had gifted my dad a court date and a fine of over two thousand dollars. The alcohol content in his blood might have had something to do with that as well. His license had been revoked, his car written off to the wreckers yard, and the rest is history.

The only person who hadn't treated me like a courtroom prop, like a monetary leak, like an inconvenience wrapped in skin, had been the hospital dentist who had patched up the damage. All kind words and gentle touch, all comforting smiles and encouragement; yes, a sadist indeed.

_Jesus Christ, turn off the fucking mental time machine before I barf at all this sentimental bullshit._

My hand lunged for the scotch bottle, snatching it from Murdoc's grasp and bringing the vessel up to my lips in a single smooth movement. The caramel-coloured liquid burnt slow and bright down my throat when I swallowed, gaze meeting his mismatched one with a look of bored defiance.

"So I suppose you think that dentist was 'helping me with my pain' today when he illegally altered the price of my extraction, hmm?" He finally responded, the query oozing from between his lips as a derisive taunt.

I froze, genuinely surprised as I looked across at the ludicrously green man. Under my startled gaze he seemed to relax, as if he'd just won the upper hand in a secret battle of wits.

"You knew?" I coughed out past the shock to my system, feeling my eyebrows raise in confusion as I then demanded, "Why don't you press charges? I'd love to see that fucker get audited."

"Too much effort love, plus," he added with a smirk, "I already won; I got the girl."

He looked at me like something he had already consumed and spat back out, disinterested now in trying another taste. It bothered me, as if I had to prove him wrong or I'd fail in some terrible way, although what the actual test  _was_  alluded me.

"You haven't got her yet," I drawled back, letting my lips pull into a lazy smile of self-satisfaction as he rose to the challenge.

Rough hands lifted to my cheeks, cupping my face to guide me closer, to pull me up to his mouth rather than moving to meet mine. He was now drunker than me, the tip of his tongue buzzing with the smokey bitterness of all the scotch he had just rushed to consume, and I tried not to frown at the way his body seemed to be functioning on autopilot; fingers dragging through the bleached strands of my hair, arm curling around my waist to bring us both closer without breaking the kiss.

It was all practiced motions, all dispassionate touch and in truth I didn't truly care. Anything was better than all that useless talking.

Moving to straddle his lap, I pulled away from his mouth to press my lips to the lightly stubbled edge of his jawbone, trailing kisses into the heated crook of the neck beneath. I could feel his pulse against my teeth, too fast and too weak; the heartbeat of a frightened rabbit, of prey waiting for the kill.  
                      Curious, I lightly bit at the spot, less of a love bite and more of a nip. Murdoc stiffened in response, his body going rigid beneath mine.

Well, not his  _entire_  body.

My crotch was pressed to his in our current positions, and I was painfully aware of the fact that thus far, the lower half of him was entirely unmoved. A big emptiness opened up inside me against my better judgment, against my will, stinging like salt in a long-open wound.

With a frown I pulled back, finding myself glaring at his tense face and waiting for him to open those hazel eyes that were currently shut behind bruised-looking lids. His green hue had gone strangely pallid, with a sheen of sweat as if he had a fever. Beneath where my hands pressed to his chest I could feel the rise and fall of his short and shallow breaths.

_Is he... having a panic attack...?_

I knew all too well what they looked like, having watched Olivia fall to pieces from them throughout our shared adolescence. Murdoc Niccals may not have been sobbing in the corner and covering his face with his hands but he definitely wasn't okay.

"Uhh, hey," I mumbled, uncomfortable as I tried to find the right thing to say.

His eyes opened slightly, the pupils shrinking and dilating as he focused on my face, before he frowned and made a grunting sound.

Fuck being nice about it.

"You alright, Kermit?" I asked flatly, quirking an eyebrow at his dysfunctional lap as I added, "Performance anxiety?"

He abruptly hefted me off his lap and stood by way of reply, pulling a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his back pocket and lighting one up in the centre of the dishevelled living room. The smoke coiled lazily in the stagnant air as he took a deep drag and exhaled, washing the lungful of tar down with a draught of scotch.

I tried not to feel like a discarded accessory as I calmly repositioned myself so that I was sitting facing forward on the worn leather couch, glaring at Murdoc's turned back. It took all my remaining mental energy refusing to think about the fact that this was the second night in a row that I had been left on a guy's sofa while he went ran off to regret having touched me at all.

_At least Murdoc isn't my roommate's best friend's boyfriend I suppose._

The thought barely managed to make me feel better before I looked over to where the green-skinned man was pacing back and forth with a cig in one hand and a bottle of almost-finished spirits in the other.

Oh yeah, it was a huge improvement.

_Men of the World:_  17  
 _Oliver Kirk's Delicate Yet Fearsomely Ravenous Ego:_  0

There was something unbalanced about him, I could see it now; the sudden jerkiness of his usually smoothly careless movements, the raggedness of his breaths as he inhaled from the cigarette repeatedly without pausing to exhale. Even as I watched, he halted mid-pace, wild animal eyes bright with manic energy when they met mine.

"This doesn't usually happen to me."

His statement sounded strange coming from his mouth, all the nonchalance and heartless cynicism abandoning him to whatever terribly fractured ego had lain beneath. I couldn't help but feel a bark of laughter cough itself from between my lips as he looked at me imploringly, standing drunk and deranged in his grubby jeans.

"Oh yes, I'm sure your world is falling apart around you," I teased mercilessly, watching him take another large swig from the scotch bottle.

"It bloody well is," He snapped back self-pityingly, gesturing with the spirits as he added in a slur, "Murdoc Niccals, Britain's greatest love machine, can't get it up. Everything's gone to hell."

_This guy is a fucking egomaniac._

The man began pacing again, muttering to himself as I looked on with an increasing sense of contempt. Seeing him so rattled, crashing hard from his coke-high and dissolving into a drunken mess, was only adding further disenchantment to the evening.

"You're truly the empty shell of a man," I intoned in witheringly sarcastic reply, rolling my eyes.

To my surprise he stopped dead in his tracks, facing away from me with his shoulders rigidly hunched. I thought I heard him repeat the word "empty" so quietly under his breath that I couldn't be sure, before the man was downing the last of the scotch and crossing the room to grab another bottle from where multiple half-empty vessels were lined up along the wall. Every step was a wobbling almost-accident, and I had opened my mouth to suggest he maybe drank no more tonight when he abruptly spoke again.

"You're right."

The words were flat and aching, piteous enough to crush any remaining illusion of sex appeal I had imagined him to have.

"It's the work of the bloody devil," Murdoc continued without waiting for me to reply, his voice strained and agitated.

It was a ridiculous thing to say, and I felt my already thinly spread patience snap.

"Well why don't you go kindly ask Satan to give you back control of your sexual functions," I muttered derisively, every word dripping in caustic contempt.

A case could be made for me being a bitch, but Murdoc Niccals didn't appear to notice my bitter tone as he turned to face me, his eyebrows raised up under the slick black of his fringe. He was looking at me as if I'd just handed him the answer to all his problems, and it made me want to punch him in his angular green face.

"In fact," I continued flatly, "Why don't you drive out to the Devil's Tramping Ground and wait for him to appear at midnight to grant you a wish."

Half-lidded hazel eyes met mine, unfocused and blinking slowly from intoxication. The man was swaying slightly as he stepped over to the couch, sinking down beside me in a movement that was less of grace than it was a collapse.

"The... Devil's Tramping Ground?" He slurred out slowly, studying me intently as if he were looking for a sign I was taking the piss.

His strangely serious mood made me uncomfortable, shifting in my seat under the weight of his gaze, and I itched to use the next opportunity to leave. This had been more than enough weirdness for one night, and I was almost certain my fleeting interest in Murdoc had been born from gratitude than any real attraction.

"Do you have a bathroom?" I blurted, ignoring his prompting to explain the North Carolina supernatural hotspot that was the Devil's Tramping Ground to him.

I received a bemused look, then an irritable sigh that was dragged exhausted from his wheezing lungs. As if the action had robbed him the surplus of precious tar-drenched fumes within the organs, the man quickly returned the cigarette to his lips, cheeks indenting as he inhaled from it's filter.

"Up the stairs, first on the right," He drawled, seemingly bored of me now that I'd refused to elaborate on the subject of the devil.

_Yeah well you're boring too, you old soak._

Drunkenly irrational, I couldn't help but feel stung as I pushed myself up, my head still throbbing from where I'd collided with the grass verge earlier. Following Murdoc's snappy directions without a backward glance, I soon found myself pushing open the creaking door to the derelict home's bathroom and flicking on the light switch to illuminate the dark space beyond.  
                   With an electric hum the naked bulb overhead flickered to life, revealing a grimy floor tiled in cracked black and white ceramic squares, stained once-cream walls and a large claw foot bath filled with filthy brackish water. The word "Bates" was scrawled in red graffiti across the back of the toilet seat lid, and I wrinkled my nose at both it and the surrounding squalor in distaste before closing the door behind me and locking it.

Despite the uncomfortable pressure on my bladder, after a look at the state of the toilet bowl I quickly decided I could in fact hold on. Rubbing my bruised forehead, I instead turned my attention to the cracked surface of the mirror that was mounted above a leaking sink and scowled fiercely at the miserable state of the person I saw.

I stood ruffled, dejected; an unpleasant sallow colour in the dim light. The shorter strands of hair at the crown of my skull were sticking up like a spiky crest, and I regretted bleaching it to the point of breakage for the millionth time. I looked like a dishevelled mess of a girl, my eye sockets bruised from lack of sleep and cheeks flushed with alcoholic warmth. Where had "Cool Girl" Oliver Kirk gone? Where was my apathy, my calmly collected disinterest? Where was the heavy duty lock and key with which I repressed all these irrational emotions and memories that were so suddenly plaguing me?

It was probably because I was sobering up, perhaps because this was the second stranger's bathroom that I had found myself disassociating in within the past 24 hours. Maybe, just maybe, it was also the fact that Murdoc Niccals wasn't swooning over me. I watched my reflection frown back at me in the mirror, and I shrugged back at her without a shred of shame; being petty didn't scare me. Being unloved, alone and forgotten did.

_The dude is green. And fifty. Do you really care?_

Deciding for the sake of my pride that I didn't, I washed my hands in the sink, the lather from the barely used cake of soap swirling as it slid down the plug hole. Drying them on my suit pants, my gaze fell on the discarded leather jacket that Murdoc had ceremoniously hung on a hook screwed to the back of the bathroom door, and I felt my fingers twitch.

His wallet was in one of the pockets, fat with cash that I distractedly removed before delving further into the contents. His driver's license was scratched and had been expired for over five years, stating a home address at somewhere ridiculous called "Kong Studios". I studied the ID photo of the much younger Murdoc Niccals, squinting to try and figure out if the caramel tone of his skin was due to the image having faded or if possibly there had been a time that the man hadn't been the same shade as an avocado.

Deciding it was definitely just a poor quality photo, I let my prying fingers continue to peruse the contents of his wallet, growing more and more bored as I flicked through the multitudes of debit and credit cards. Quite a few of them were not under his name, and I smirked at the idea of the poor woman named "Johanne Whiley" having to realise she'd had her AmEx Platinum card swiped by the green bastard.  
                   I was still smiling cruelly when I pulled out a long-expired  _City Central Library_  card, surprised as the action sent a little fold of notepaper that had been hidden behind it fluttering to the floor. Stooping to pick it up, I felt the worn surface between my fingers, the paper rough and rumpled as if it had been completely wet once upon a time. There was a dry crinkling sound as I carefully pulled the delicate folds open, frowning to see a note handwritten in smudged black ink. The colour had bled across the page from whatever watery past it had, and the person's penmanship was a barely legible scrawl, yet as I squinted at it in the fluorescent light I realised I could still manage to read parts of it.

_My Dear__ Stu,_

_the trapeze act was ________

_Love ____, Slo__ McL__d_   
_Born 18th of June, 1985_   
_Living _ _____ (most likely, but then again, when have I ever managed to _____ _ ____ _________?)_

I frowned at it a moment longer, before deciding that although I could probably translate more of the smeary text, I really didn't give enough of a fuck to.

_Who the fuck keeps love notes that aren't even written to them?_

I folded it back up with only a quarter of the care Murdoc had used previously, shoving it back behind the library card and returning the wallet to the jacket pocket I had found it in. Reaching into the opposing side of the jacket, I was disappointed to find it empty, my fingers brushing against slippery material instead of anything of interest.

Then, an object.

It was small and strangely shaped, all rounded and ending in three separate points on one side. I froze, grasping it between my fingers to pull it out even as I realised what it was.

A molar tooth, clean and smooth as if carved from porcelain. The three roots were strong and straight, the yellow tint of healthy bone, and the crown was unmarred of any cracks or decay.

_It's perfect_.

I recognised that it had to be the tooth Murdoc had got extracted that day, but I couldn't fathom why in the world such a healthy tooth would have been paining him enough to warrant it. Dr Brody would do anything for money if asked, so it wasn't surprising he had ripped out a perfect molar when offered the opportunity, but why would Murdoc have been so convinced it needed to come out?

The tooth was entirely clean, the work of Tamara in the surgery's sterilisation room no doubt, and I narrowed my eyes at it in the fluorescent light whilst making a mental note to ask her about what our strange green-skinned patient had said during his appointment yesterday.

Not because I cared of course, just out of interest.

My fingers itched as I went to return the tooth to where I'd found it, and against my will the movement of the hand stopped dead in its tracks. Jaw clenching, I stared at the current object of my fickle desire and tried to remind myself of another tooth I had once stolen, of the consequences I still had to live out.

A human canine, fallen from the jaw of an elderly woman so afflicted with periodontitis that there was no longer enough of her gums to keen her teeth in place. Her conceit, as she asked if it could be glued back in to the empty socket left behind, wrinkled eyelids batting at Dr Brody as if she could somehow use her imaginary beauty to charm him.

Mrs Johnstone, our egos, and all that came after.

It didn't bear thinking about, and it was with that clear direction in mind that I pocketed Murdoc's tooth and exited the dingy bathroom.

After descending the creaking staircase, I returned to find the man passed out cold on the leather sofa, the tip of the lit cigarette in his hand steadily burning a hole into the upholstery. Barely able to keep from rolling my eyes at his pathetic form, I peevishly snatched the cig from between his slim fingers, stubbing it out in the overflowing ashtray on the coffee table nearby.  
                   He murmured something in his coma-like slumber, a word so soft and rasping that his voice broke on the single syllable. An arm extended, wavering to reach across the space between us, and I stepped back from the touch like it might have burnt my skin. He'd said a name, but it wasn't mine.

I looked down at him, my mouth tasting bitter as I watched his green fingers curl on empty air, his closed eyelids flickering with an intoxicated dream. When he spoke again it was a scotch-scented mumble, smouldering in the quiet of the house I suddenly felt like an intruder in.

"... angel..."

The hushed whisper wasn't meant for me, that much I could easily tell; it was too raw, too plaintive. With a sneer of pure disdain I turned away from his sleeping sprawl, snatching the bottle of amber-coloured spirits off the coffee table on my way to the front door.

_Compensation for a shit night._

Exiting the house to stand on the concrete front steps, I ordered an Uber from my nearly-dead phone, checking the notification list and nodding sullenly to myself when I saw that in all the time it had been since anyone last saw me, I only had one text. It was from Sarah, the unfortunate girl who hadn't manage to get a place in the sorority she wanted and had been eternally punished by being given me as a roommate. Squinting at the bright cracked screen in the darkness, I read the beginning sentence of the text from the notification bar rather than clicking on it and giving her a read receipt.

10:27am | " _Okay so what is ur problem?? Kelly is fucking pissed that u stayed at Ryan's last night_ "... OPEN TO READ MORE

Despite the phone's encouragement, I didn't open it. What was the point? I couldn't even remember if "Kelly" was the blonde or the redhead out of the two girls who constantly loitered in our dorm room, and I could only conclude that "Ryan" was the name of the self-entitled law student who had thrown the party last night. A rotten feeling spread through my stomach, cold and curdling against every organ, blood vessel and tube.

_Was I the one who had started kissing him or vice versa?_

It didn't matter, in the end someone had reached for someone else and we had made out on the couch until he'd started unbuttoning my shirt and I'd throw up red wine in his lap. He'd been introduced to me by Sarah as her "best friend's new boyfriend" jokingly in the earlier hours of the night, but I hadn't cared enough to remember that small fact until I'd woken up in the morning with mild horror and a massive hangover.   
                    The memory was cloudy now, and shameful as I tried to shine the light of recollection on it, but I was sure I recalled that the boy had flung me aside in disgust, scarlet bile soaking pungent into his beige chinos. Then he'd been standing up and leaving and I was left lying by myself on a stranger's sofa, blinking in surprise.

_Good to see tonight went much better for you, Oliver Kirk the Remorseless Thief._

I chocked up the score, entirely numb as I took a sip of the stolen scotch and then stepped out into the waiting night.


	7. 8am, Gatwick Airport and "The Girl"

It has been a long wait in the line at Gatwick's international baggage check line, but neither of them seem to mind. They'd each in turn already been wrapped in a tearful embrace from the red-haired woman who'd dropped them off, dutifully promising her to bring back a souvenir from their travels, and fifteen minutes later are still discussing what to get her.

"Are you sure she wouldn't want a nice cowboy hat or sumfink?" The man asks, fingers scratching through the hair that sits up in unruly blue tufts at the crown of his head.

"I think it's  _you_  who wants the cowboy hat, Stu," His companion teases in response, her raspy laugh warm and full of light as she pokes him playfully in the ribs with a crooked finger.

The blue-haired man snickers as they move up to the front of the line, catching her hand easily in one of his own much larger ones before bringing it up to his mouth and laying a kiss against her knuckles. The touch is soft, a familiar press of skin to skin that still makes her smile up at him even after all this time.

_I love you, I love you._

When the woman at the desk finally calls them forward, the man's face pulls into a gap-toothed grin of mischief as he picks up their suitcase in one hand and then the unsuspecting girl with the other, his arm wrapping around her waist as he holds her like a surfboard. She makes a small yelp of surprise then dissolves into laughter as he strides excitedly up to the counter in his long-legged gait.

"Is this too big fa carry-on?" He asks the flight attendant manning the desk cheerily, hoisting the giggling girl at his side a little higher onto his bony hip.

The woman shakes her head at them both in disbelief, but a small smile is twitching the corners of her mouth as she replies dryly, "Definitely oversized."

"Ah, looks like you're gettin' stowed then, Low Slow," He mock sighs, flashing his companion a wide grin before setting her gently back down on her feet.

The suitcase is checked in and their boarding passes received, then it's the two of them walking out hand in hand towards the big unknown, brave and bold underneath fluorescent lights. His black eyes crinkling at the corners as he watches her talk excitedly, telling him about the offer she's been given by her university to continue her degree with Honours next year. He doesn't quite understand what it means, but he's excited for her regardless, feeling the sight of her smile fill him up with a kind of golden warmth he's never found with another living soul.

_I love you, I love you._

When they reach the boarding lounge it's already packed with the other early morning passengers, hardly any seats available, so the two of them sit cross-legged on the floor like children. Backs pressed to the wall, her head leaning against his shoulder, the blue-haired boy draws her pictures in biro on the back of a crumpled receipt he'd found in his wallet. She points out all the best parts of each little sketchy doodle, her Scottish accent thick as she sleepily mumbles the words of encouragement until her eyes finally fall closed. Curling his arm around her dozing form, the blue-haired boy holds her safe and warm whilst he continues drawing until their flight is called to start boarding. 

The girl is well and truly asleep by then, her pale face pressed up against his jacket sleeve and entirely relaxed as he reaches out and ruffles her hair, feeling it long and silky beneath his calloused fingers. At the touch she grins wide, opening one eye to squint up at him.

"Is it time?"

"It's time, love."

She uncurls herself from him and stands, offering both her hands to help pull the lanky man to his feet before they join the queue to board. Their fingers stay interlinked as they stand together waiting, but their gazes are on the information board ahead and the words written there in orange lights against the black.

_American Airlines_  Flight  **99**  : London Gatwick, UK to Detroit, US

"Do you think Noodle was right? That we'll all find him there in that derelict house?" The girl asks, the text reflecting amber in her grey eyes.

The blue-haired boy looks at her, dark brows furrowing for a moment in worry before he finds his voice. The words come scratchy and quiet from his tongue, his hand squeezing hers tight in reassurance.

"I hope so, Sloane, I really hope so."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so so sorry for the massive wait on new chapters for this! The "Murdoc is dead" thing threw me and I had a week of walking around sniffling and wearing a black veil like a widower (exaggeration but yikes I did believe the green backstabbing asshole). Then Noodle revealed he was alive and now I can't look at yaks without filling with rage (what kind of man... ties himself up in a rug and gets a yak to walk him through the snowy mountains? WHAT KIND OF MID-LIFE CRISIS ARE YOU FUCKING HAVING MURDOC). Felt so betrayed I started a terribly cliche Tweek x Craig fanfic that I have been told is "depressing" and makes everyone who reads it "sad", "heartbroken", "bummed out" etc etc but I mean how happily can you write when Jamie Hewlett lapped up ya tears and ran away giggling into Damon Albarn's open arms?
> 
> Anyway, just another interlude here because you all know how obsessive I get with story structure, big full chapter coming soon.


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